We’re pleased to announce the winner of the November WWWC: James Byron Books! James’ response to the prompt ‘car on a hill’ features a malevolent Volkswagen Beetle that seems to thirst for blood.

Read James’ winning entry below.

‘Tell me everything is going to be okay.’ Her last words are still ringing in my ears. They often say death comes quickly but, in her case, it was taking far too long. She was determined to live.

‘Hang on, help is on its way.’

It was supposed to be fun; it was supposed to be easy, so when we found the abandoned car on a hill, she dared me to get in. I’d convinced her there was enough gradient in the hill to get it to roll down, but she didn’t believe me.

‘I’ve taken the handbrake off and taken it out of gear.’

I climbed back out, held the door open with one hand, put my other hand on the steering wheel. We pushed off and it gathered speed slowly, ever so slowly. It was just like pushing a scooter, but the little car was heavier than it looked.

My feet were slipping on the spinifex grass, but finally the Volkswagen Beetle was moving. Just enough. Once the bug gained enough momentum, I jumped in. I remember calling out to her after I’d managed to get the window down.

‘I won’t be able to steer it much; the steering wheel is locked in place. I can keep it in a straight line. Just keep out of the way.’

She ran down the hill to wait for me.

‘Here I come, ready or not.’

The steering wheel still wouldn’t budge so I didn’t have to struggle to keep it in a straight line. It was all happening now. Wow, my first drive and I’m only thirteen. I can do this. Driving is easy. The little car was groaning with the movement. Every inch of its being was being tested.

It hadn’t moved since … since I remembered seeing it sitting up here years ago.

They said it had rolled down the hill then too. That driver was much older than me. I’d heard someone had been killed that day. They said the car had crashed into her when it reached the bottom, and she died. They must’ve put the car back up here. I wondered why they put it back.

Maybe it was a shrine or something. Something to remember her by.

I was moving. I was driving. I was going fast.

‘Look out. Keep away.’

I could see Ellie was well to my right, and well out of the way. I could only go straight anyway. It was then I felt the car move. Ever so slightly, ever so slightly.

I struggled to keep it in a straight line. It wouldn’t let me straighten up.

‘Keep out of the way, Ellie.’

The steering wheel was still locked straight ahead, but the little bug was steering towards the right. I couldn’t change direction. How does a car go to the right if the steering wheel doesn’t move?

Ellie was coming closer to me now. She was smiling, grinning, laughing. I can still see her. I still dream about her. The shock on her pretty face when I hit her.

The police interviewed me and wanted to know why I’d driven the car directly towards Ellie. They all wanted to know. I couldn’t explain it. How could I?

*

A year later, on the anniversary of the accident, I went back to the hill to pay my respects. I was told it was the right thing to do. I felt it was the right thing to do. I still couldn’t explain what happened, but didn’t think anyone would understand anyway.

I stopped my bike at the bottom of the hill and noticed someone had put the car back on the crest again. I pushed my bike up the rise, went up to the little bug and noticed a man sitting on the driver’s side. He looked about twenty-five. I knocked on the door, startling him. He wound down the window and stared at me.

‘I know you. You killed that girl. Ran over her with this car.’

I didn’t know what to say or what to do. He opened the door and stepped out. I wanted to run away, to get away, but my feet felt like lead balloons. The only thing I could do was cry. He put his hand gently on my shoulder.

‘I killed her too.’

There was something about this man. I felt a connection with him; something felt right. I took a breath. ‘You didn’t. I killed her. The car drove towards her. I couldn’t stop it. The steering wheel was straight but the car…’

He looked towards the bottom of the hill, then back to me. ‘Did you arrange to have the car put back up here?’

‘No. I didn’t.’

He stared into the distance.

‘I didn’t when it was my time either, but here it is. Up here again. The car on the hill. My time was five years ago, today. I bet they asked me the same questions they asked you, and I suspect you gave the same answers. I didn’t kill Kensie. You didn’t kill Ellie. It was the car.’

I didn’t know what to say. He continued. ‘Did you look at the engine?’

‘Nope. We … I couldn’t find the latch to open it.’

The man leaned down to a large rucksack on the ground, pulled on the zipper to open it and then withdrew a crowbar. ‘This is my friend Jimmy Bar. He’ll help me open it.’ He hefted the tool in his hands in readiness for the challenge.

‘Do you want to do the honors?’

‘No, thanks.’

He slid the thick metal rod underneath the rounded panel and tried to jimmy it open. It wouldn’t yield despite his dogged determination, and finally he dropped the bar into the grass.

‘I guess I’ll try my persuader then.’

From the rucksack he extracted a heavy metal-headed mallet and began to strike at the little car. It didn’t make any marks or leave any damage. He took a deep breath then sat down. He was defeated.

‘I’m sorry, mate. I could’ve helped you. I could’ve saved Ellie too. I was here the same day as you two, but I’d gone home to get my angle grinder. I wasn’t back quickly enough to stop you from taking your drive. From killing her.’

‘I didn’t kill her. The car did. You just said that.’

The man took a deep breath and looked at the car. ‘Do you smoke?’

I shook my head.

‘Good, then don’t take it up. Nasty habit.’

I realised he was about to douse the car with petrol. He’d bought a can with him.

‘Stand back.’

The man sloshed the petrol across the roof of the car, spurted some in through the open door, and dispersed the remainder on each of the tyres. He then stood back and lit his cigarette. The area smelled of fuel. I was glad he was about to use it on the car.

He looked at me. ‘Do you have your phone with you?’

I nodded.

‘Good. Get ready to dial 000. We might need the fire brigade if this takes off.’

The man took a long draw on his cigarette before he flicked it onto the ground. The petrol ignited. Woof.

The fire took hold and grey smoke began to swirl around the car and fill my nostrils. The man stepped back to admire his achievement.

‘Don’t get too close, I think it’s about to blow.’ We stepped back and the little car exploded in a ball of flames. He added: ‘It won’t survive this time.’

Searing heat enveloped the area, and the grass was now well alight, so I called the fire brigade and we waited. They came and put out the scrub fire, but the little bug was left undamaged. Even the tyres hadn’t melted.

The fireman called us aside. ‘What happened here, gentlemen?’

I responded quickly. ‘We tried to burn the car. It kills people. We tried to get to the engine too, but we couldn’t. Will you help?’

The fireman went to his truck and pulled out the Jaws of Life. They looked like scissors he’d borrowed from a robot. They were huge and strong. He went to work on the car. The rear panel finally yielded; he cut off the roof, the doors and the front panels. It was then I noticed red, viscous liquid leaking from the car. It looked like blood.

‘I should have done this ten years ago when it killed my daughter. She was only five.’

*

Five years later I turned nineteen. I drove to the hill. The charred remnants of the fire were well gone by now, but the car was still there. Someone had put it all back together like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

Some bugs are so hard to kill.

Byron James-Adams is a former long-term banker by profession, lifetime musician, songwriter and inveterate dreamer. This creative escape allows him to keep his mind active and fingers supple, writing in a variety of styles including The Nic Thorn Caper Series, stand alone Crime Thrillers, Sci-Fi trilogy and assorted short stories, penned as James Byron Books. The author lives in South Australia in a renovated church, with a very shy cat. He has been fortunate to have visited many places that are worthy of a peek, and enjoys including them in these stories.